


Don't Know Until You Try

by kathkin



Series: A Few Notes in the Song of Creation (a Lord of the Rings Dæmon AU) [14]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Bisexual Merry, F/M, Gen, M/M, Same-Sex Daemons, gay Frodo, the obligatory daemon settling fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: But then that was how it was, wasn’t it? You were unsettled one minute and settled the next, and that was it, bang, forever.Four hobbits, four dæmons, four different settlings.





	1. Meandering (Merry)

**Author's Note:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But then, he wanted to say, he’d never had any reason to doubt that he liked lasses. Lads liked lasses. That was the way of it. If it hadn’t been for Frodo, being so cheerfully casual about the whole business, he might never have realised it could be any different._

“What put it in your head, anyway?” said Folco.

“ _I_ don’t know,” said Merry. “I’ve just been thinking lately.” 

They stood on a quiet stretch of the bank of the Brandywine, skipping stones and meandering around the subject. Merry stooped, looking for a good stone to skip. Grumpy had been swimming in the shallows as a fish but now she hopped out of the water, dog-shaped, and began to nose at the pebbles.

“You could just _ask_ Cousin Frodo,” said Folco. His dæmon Honey was out on the water in the shape of a coot.

“I don’t have the nerve,” said Merry. He selected a stone and skipped it.

Folco watched Merry’s stone go, hands on his hips, lips pressed together in thought. “I rather think,” he said, “it’s one of those things where you always know.”

“What if it isn’t, though?” said Merry. “What if it’s one of those things where you don’t know until you try?”

“Can’t see how it could be,” said Folco. “I mean, you knew you liked lasses before you kissed one, didn’t you? I know I did.”

“Well, yes.” Merry turned a pebble over and over in his hands. Grumpy wandered about his feet, changing from a dog to an otter and then to a water vole.

But then, he wanted to say, he’d never had any reason to doubt that he liked lasses. Lads liked lasses. That was the way of it. If it hadn’t been for Frodo, being so cheerfully casual about the whole business, he might never have realised it _could_ be any different.

“Stop thinking so hard,” said Folco.

“Shan’t,” said Merry, and tossed his pebble into the water.

Honey spread her wings and coasted back to shore, shaking herself dry and into the fat cat-shape that she was favouring lately. “You want to know what I think?” said Folco.

“Not especially,” said Merry, though he did. He wouldn’t have brought the subject up if he didn’t.

“I think, if you’re thinking about it this much, it means you probably _are_ ,” said Folco.

Merry scowled and Grumpy, abruptly dog-shaped, pounced in a flash. She rolled Folco’s Honey over and Honey rolled her over –

“It does _not_!” said Merry.

Grumpy pinned Honey to the gravel, but Honey slipped into the shape of a weasel and wriggled out of her grip.

“ _Normal_ hobbits don’t think about this sort of thing,” said Folco in a warning tone.

“ _Firstly_ ,” said Merry as Grumpy snatched Honey up in her mouth and worried her like a rabbit. “I’m a Brandybuck, in case you hadn’t noticed, so I can do what I want. And secondly – oh, shut up!”

Flitting into a wildcat Honey pinned Grumpy firmly to the ground, only for Grumpy to twist and turn into a skittering lizard and flee across the beach.

Scooping her up, water vole-shaped once again, Merry sank down on the damp sand and scowled.

Folco sat beside him. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to rile you up.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it,” said Grumpy from Merry’s lap. Merry ran a hand down her sleek brown back.

Honey turned once again into a cat and stuck out her tongue. “Why do you even care?” said Folco.

“I just keep thinking.” Merry clutched Grumpy to him and looked out over the water. “What if it’s one of those things where you _do_ have to try it, to find out, and I _don’t_ try it and I miss my chance somehow.”

Coming of age had been forever away when he was twenty but now he was almost twenty-five and that was almost halfway there. These wild, free years wouldn’t last forever. Once he came of age everything would become most predictable. He had a hunch he’d be married with half a dozen children before he knew it.

Suddenly a sparrow, Honey flitted to Folco’s ear and murmured something that made him blush. “Quiet, you,” he said.

“What did she say?” said Merry.

“Nothing,” said Folco.

Grumpy raised her head. “What did you say?”

“I said,” said Honey, “that if you want to try it, you could always –”

“She said, if you want to try it, you can always kiss me,” said Folco quickly.

Merry and Grumpy stared at them. As one they burst out laughing.

“Well, fine,” said Folco, scrambling to his feet, dusting sand off his britches. “Forget about it.”

“Oh, now,” said Merry as Folco wandered downriver, looking at the ground for a good stone. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”

Holding a flat stone, Folco said, “well – do you want to?”

He sounded almost plaintive and Merry wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing himself, and for how long. Grumpy slithered out of his lap, otter-shaped, as he rose upon onto his knees. “I would not,” he said, “be averse – to trying it with you.”

After all, it wasn’t as if anyone would ever have to know. Folco could keep a secret. So could Merry.

Folco looked at his stone. He looked out at the shifting water. He looked at Honey, who was trying out various frog and fish shapes as he thought. She turned into a blackbird and flew to his shoulder, and he nodded, resolved.

“Alright.” He dropped his stone onto the sand and came to join Merry, not quite _hurrying_ but probably wanting to. He dropped to his knees and sat at a loss. “How does this work, anyway? Do I go in or do you go in or what?”

“How should I know?” said Merry.

“It’s not like we’ve ever kissed a boy before,” said Grumpy.

“I’ll go in,” said Folco.

“Why do you get to go in?” said Merry.

“We’re the ones who said we should try kissing,” said Honey.

“We are,” said Folco.

“Let’s go in together,” said Merry. They tried that – and bumped their heads. “Ow.”

“That’s not working, just let him go in,” said Grumpy.

“Shush,” said Merry, but he let Folco go in first.

Folco duly touched their lips together, once, barely even a kiss. He pulled back.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Merry.

“This feels weird,” said Folco.

“Do you want to – not?” said Merry.

“No no, I’m game,” said Folco.

“Then kiss me properly,” said Merry.

“Fine.” Folco looked at Merry as if sizing him up, wet his lips – then grabbed his face and kissed him, properly.

There was a moment or two of messy confusion as neither of them could work out what they were supposed to be doing or who was supposed to take the lead or whether or not they wanted tongue, but soon enough things settled down and got comfortable. Very comfortable. Possibly too comfortable.

Kissing lads, Merry realised, wasn’t so different from kissing lasses, in that it felt the same and he liked both more or less equally. The realisation made him a touch light-headed and abruptly he was dizzy with the kissing and the newfound knowledge, so dizzy he had to pull away.

But it wasn’t the kissing. Or, it wasn’t _just_ the kissing. His head was swimming and his chest felt light and airy, and this wasn’t how he usually felt after kissing at all. This felt – different. Intriguing. _New_.

“What?” said Folco.

Merry held up a finger to silence him, still trying to work out what it was he was feeling. “Hm.”

“ _What_?” Folco said again. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” said Merry. “I –” Grumpy nosed at his hand, getting his attention, and he looked down at her and _that_ was it, what he was feeling came from _her_.

Grumpy was standing beside him, in the shape of a fox. Her eyes were very bright. Merry stared at her and she stared back.

“Did – did you –” said Honey.

“Did you two just settle?” Folco finished.

“No,” said Merry. “No! I don’t know – um. Maybe?”

The look on Folco’s face changed, slowly, from one of confusion – to one of unfettered delight. He rose to his feet, spread his arms, and declared, “oh, I am _amazing_!”

“What?” said Merry.

“Best kisser in the Shire,” said Folco. “It’s official. _Best kisser in the Shire_!” he hollered out over the Brandywine.

“What?” Merry scrambled to his feet. “No, no –”

“ _Best. Kisser. In. The. Shire_ ,” chanted Folco, jabbing a finger at himself.

“You are _not_!” said Merry. “It wasn’t that good!”

“Um, I kissed you so good your dæmon settled?” said Folco. “I am outstanding. I am _outstanding_!” he cried out to the river.

“Oh, tell it to the whole Farthing why don’t you!” said Merry.

“Mr Brandybuck, I am going to tell it to the whole _Shire_!” said Folco with an obnoxious swagger.

“No, no!” said Merry. “You can’t go telling people!”

“I rather think they’ll notice,” said Folco.

“Whether we tell them or not,” added Honey, fawn-shaped.

At that, Merry’s protestations died on his lips. He looked at Grumpy. Grumpy twitched her new ears. She looked entirely at ease, perhaps more at ease than he’d ever seen her. More so than that, she looked _right_. She looked solid and _present_ in a way she’d never looked before.

“Did you really just settle?” said Merry.

Grumpy lifted up and inspected her front paws, one at a time. She gave herself a shake. “I think so?”

“Now?” said Merry in disbelief. “You’re doing this _now_?”

“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Grumpy.

“No, no, no,” said Merry. “That won’t do at all. You have to unsettle again, Grumps – we can’t let _them_ have this!”

“It’s too late for that,” said Grumpy.

“But _now_?” said Merry.

Grumpy said, “you should have thought of that before you kissed him.”

“Ha!” cried Folco, jabbing a finger at Grumpy. “So it _was_ because of the kiss!”

“Oh, definitely,” said Grumpy. “Sorry, Merry.”

“That doesn’t mean it was because of you,” said Merry. “It might just have been, have been kissing a lad for the first time.”

“Um, I’ve never kissed a lad before either, and you’ll notice _Honey_ ,” said Folco, gesturing emphatically at his dæmon, who turned into a frog by way of demonstration, “hasn’t settled. That was _just_ you. Because you _loved_ it. You loved it so much you _settled_.”

That word, _settled_ , hung in the air between them, above the sound of the rushing river water.

Curiously rabbit-shaped, Honey stepped forward and gazed up at Grumpy. “Did you really?” she said, hopping around the bigger dæmon, flitting from shape to shape in excitement. “How did you do it? How does it feel?”

How did it _feel_ , indeed. The embarrassment of what had happened was passing, and in its place a thousand thoughts swirled around Merry’s head. Like how Grumpy couldn’t be settled, because she’d been unsettled only moments ago, but then that was how it was, wasn’t it? You were unsettled one minute and settled the next, and that was it, _bang_ , forever. 

Like how he’d enjoyed kissing Folco a lot and evidently he _did_ go for other lads and could he find any more lads who’d want to kiss him –

Like how Grumpy wasn’t going to be a bird ever again and he’d miss that because having wings always felt wonderful. But this felt better than having wings ever did. Grumpy was a fox and he’d never imagined she might settle as a fox but it suited her, it suited them both.

She looked downright _majestic_ , red-gold with satiny black feet and pricked up ears and any fear they’d had that being settled might get boring had already faded because this was the one shape they’d _never_ get bored of.

“It feels good,” said Grumpy.

“It feels _really_ good,” said Merry, and Grumpy did a happy dance on the sand. “Oh, this – this is _amazing_.” Why hadn’t anyone told him settling felt this good? He hopped up and down in delight. “We’re really settled – ha, I _told_ Fatty I’d beat him to it, didn’t I? Folco, look at her –”

“Look at me!” cried Grumpy, turning about and about on the spot, showing off every inch of her new shape.

“Doesn’t she look splendid?” said Merry. “I – we –”

Of course, now he’d have to tell his mother and father. And once they knew it’d be all _well Merry, it’s time to be responsible_ and _Merry, you’re old enough to know better now your dæmon’s settled_ even though nothing had actually changed and his breath caught in his throat. “Oh, help. We’re not old enough for this.”

“Looks like we are,” said Grumpy.

“I’m _not_ ready to do this,” said Merry. “Folco, what did you have to go and do _this_ for?”

“I thought you were over the moon?” said Folco.

“We are!” said Grumpy.

“I mean, I was,” said Merry. “It’s just a little –”

“Scary,” finished Grumpy, “and it’s been awfully sudden, and –”

“I don’t even feel different but everyone’s going to treat us different,” said Merry.

“I feel different but I don’t feel any older,” said Grumpy.

“And stop _looking_ at us like that, we just,” said Merry.

“We just settled and all,” said Grumpy. “So you’ll forgive us, if, if,”

We’re having some conflicting emotions,” Merry finished. “Stop looking at me like that!”

“Merry, Merry,” said Folco, a smirk upon his face. Honey flitted from shoulder to shoulder as a canary. “ _Do_ calm down. Just remember.” He took a step forward and laid a comforting hand on Merry’s arm. “I kissed you so good you settled, and I feel _so_ powerful,” he said, and grinned. Honey turned into a brightly-coloured parrot and squawked in delight.

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” said Merry. “Never mind. I have to go and tell my parents.”

“Tell them what?” said Folco. “That we –”

“Don’t be silly,” said Grumpy.

“I’ll say it just – happened,” said Merry. “Don’t you _dare_ tell anyone about the kissing.”

“Oh, Merry, Merry,” said Folco. “I’m going to tell _everyone_ I know.”

“I hate you,” said Merry.

“You’d do the same, and you know it,” said Folco.

He couldn’t argue with that. “Well – fair.” It wasn’t as if Folco would do anything truly cruel, like tell his parents. “Just let me tell people about the settling part first.”

“Fair,” said Folco. “Fair?” he said to Honey.

Honey ruffled her feathers. “Fair.”

“Well, then,” said Merry. “I’m off to tell my parents.”

“What, right now?” said Folco.

“Yes,” said Merry, already backing along the riverbank towards home. “Right away.”

“We only just got here!” said Folco.

“I don’t care,” said Merry. “I’m going to go and tell everyone _I_ know.” He turned and raced for the path.

“This means you’re definitely like _that_ , you know!” Folco cried after him.

“I don’t care!” Merry hollered back.

“I don’t care a button!” said Grumpy, hopping beside him.

“Don’t wait for me!” said Merry. “I shall be all day!”

So saying, he and Grumpy raced off along the Brandywine towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Merry broke the news to his family rather like this:
> 
> Merry: *kicking open the door to Brandy Hall* GUESS WHAT EVERYONE *holding up Grumpy like Simba at the beginning of the Lion King* GRUMPY SETTLED  
> Grumpy: I'M MAJESTIC  
> Merry: SHE'S MAJESTIC
> 
> 2) Folco kissed a _lot_ of hopeful young hobbits that summer. Because hey, it worked once. Worth a shot. (They cottoned on eventually.)
> 
> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Grumpy"):** [red fox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_-_British_Wildlife_Centre_\(17429406401\).jpg).  
>  **Folco and Honeysuckle ("Honey"):** unsettled. (Honey later settled as a [fancy rat](https://static1.squarespace.com/static/519fc518e4b046d94a9788ad/t/5379491ae4b07d0c6bf6acaa/1400524954487/?format=750w).)


	2. Dependable (Sam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"One of these days I’ll surprise you, Rosie Cotton.” / “Oh, yes?” said Rosie. “How?” / “I can’t hardly tell you, can I? Then it wouldn’t be a surprise."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

The day Hare settled, they were in the garden pulling carrots.

It was the kind of work Sam liked, soothing in its repetition and yet practical, rewarding. He worked quietly, the spring sun on the back of his neck. Harebell nearby was playing in that way only unsettled dæmons could play, playing neither of them knew for the last time.

She sat digging and nosing at the ground as a mole; changed to a grasshopper, and hopped about Sam’s knees; into a rabbit, and sat on the bare earth, ears pricked up as if listening for danger.

He knew some people chatted to their dæmons all the while they were alone. To fill up the quiet, he thought, but he and Harebell liked the quiet and after all they knew what each other were thinking.

Just then, he couldn’t say what she was thinking, though he could see she was thinking hard as she gazed out over the vegetable garden. With a last flick of her rabbit-ears, Harebell made up her mind. She turned into a long-haired, glossy spaniel, gave herself a good contented shake, and said, “ _there_ we go.”

She sat back on her haunches, her tongue lolling happily out of her mouth, and Sam sat back on _his_ haunches, and they stared at each other. They could hear May and her dæmon gossiping happily in the kitchen

“What do you think?” said Harebell.

“What do I think?” said Sam.

He knew some people were surprised by the shapes their dæmons took. When May had settled in the winter, she’d even cried, though she’d come around soon enough. But he’d known Harebell was going to be a dog for the best part of a year. It had just been a matter of when, and what kind.

A good-sized dog, as it turned out, with long, elegant ears and shining red-gold fur. If he was surprised, it was only that she’d come out so pretty.

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright,” Harebell echoed.

They stared at each other a moment longer. Then she leapt into his arms, sticking her grubby paws on his shoulders and licking and licking at his face in her excitement. “Alright, alright,” said Sam, laughing, hugging her back. He buried his face in the long, soft fur of her neck.

At length, she huffed, and wriggled out of his arms, and looked at him as if to say, _well, what now_? What now, indeed.

Sam finished pulling the carrots. He put them safely in the basket and carried them through the vegetable garden to the kitchen, Harebell lolloping along at his heels. He opened the kitchen door and stood just inside, clutching the basket.

May had finished with the lunch dishes and now she was cleaning the basin. Daisy was at the table, with a basket of darning work. “I’ve got the carrots,” said Sam.

“Put them on the side, now,” said May, not looking at him.

“Alright.” Sam didn’t put the carrots on the side. He stood on the threshold, waiting.

“And close the door,” May added.

Sam glanced over his shoulder, at the warm garden. He said, “Hare settled.”

And then at once four sets of eyes were looking at him in astonishment and inn a flurry of fur and hands and feathers Sam and Hare were pounced upon by two sisters, a muntjac and an extraordinarily noisy chicken.

“When?” said Daisy, clutching at him and beaming. At their feet, her dæmon Sage circled Harebell, admiring all her angles.

“Just now, in the garden,” said Sam.

“Why didn’t you say so straight away?” said May.

In truth, Sam had been waiting for them to notice. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Oh, put those carrots down and hug me proper,” said May. Sam put the carrots down and she threw herself into his arms and Daisy stood beside them laughing into her apron.

“I’m going to tell dad,” she said, and raced from the kitchen, her Sage’s hooves clattering on the stone floor.

“Don’t,” said Sam, for their father was sure to be hard at work, wherever he was. Daisy and Sage were already gone. “There’s no need to make such a fuss,” he said. “It’s not as if it’s a surprise.”

“How do you mean?” said May. Her dæmon Blackie had begun to groom Hare’s fur with his beak and Hare was sitting there, tongue out, loving all the attention.

“We all knew she was going to be a dog and all,” said Sam.

“You never know,” said May. Probably she was going to say something about Blackie settling as a fat rooster instead of something pretty like she’d wanted, but she thought better of it. “Anyhow it’s about time. Me being settled and you not and me the younger, it wasn’t right.”

Sam had told her over and over that he didn’t mind that she’d settled before him, and it was her fault for settling early anyway, but before he could remind her as much – again – Daisy bustled back with the Gaffer in two, still sprinkled with sawdust from the woodshed.

“What’s this all about?” he said, glowering at the state of the kitchen, at the carrots sitting on the floor and the door standing open.

“Go on, tell him,” said Daisy.

Sam had rather thought she’d have done that for him. He swallowed, struck with sudden nerves. “We settled, dad.”

Whatever the Gaffer had expected, it evidently wasn’t this. A broad smile spread across his face. “Oh, good lad!” he exclaimed. His beaver-dæmon lolloped across the kitchen to greet Harebell and Harebell leapt to her feet, tail wagging in delight.

*

His father had clapped him on the back in congratulation and that had been that, back to the business of the day. Sam would have been happy enough to leave it at that and all, for he’d never liked being the centre of attention.

He was content to let people find out in their own time – as soon as Daisy and May and Marigold had his party organised it’d be all over Hobbiton, without his having to do anything – but there were a couple of hobbits he wanted to tell himself.

So it was that early the next morning he went down the lane to see the Cottons.

Rosie and her brother Nibs were in the yard collecting eggs. Rosie’s dæmon stalked about the hen house, checking hard to reach nooks and crannies. Nibs’ dæmon was a goat today, racing about bothering the hens and generally making a nuisance of herself. 

“Butter, don’t be so rough,” said Rosie. Butter bleated and slunk off to bother Nibs instead. Rosie shook her head and went back to her work.

At the gate, Sam cleared his throat. “Morning, Rosie.”

“Oh, good morning, Sam,” said Rosie, glancing at him. Her dæmon raced across the yard and scrambled up onto the gate, mewling a greeting at Harebell.

Rosie’s dæmon was called Cowslip and he’d settled in the autumn as a long haired cat with fur the colour of cream and bright blue eyes. Privately Sam and Harebell thought he was the prettiest dæmon in Hobbiton. Maybe in the whole Farthing.

“Can I come in?” he said to Cowslip.

Cowslip’s tongue flicked out. “Of course,” he said, and hopped off the gate to let Sam by.

Sam scrambled over the gate. Harebell wriggled under. There he stood, leaning against the gate, trying to look casual but interesting, the way Tom Cotton did that made all the girls go doey-eyed. “Good morning,” he said.

“You said good morning already,” said Rosie.

“Oh, so I did.” Sam cleared his throat again. “So, um. Notice anything?”

“Your dæmon settled,” said Rosie, already back to work and not even looking at him.

“Oh,” said Sam. Was it so obvious?

“May come by last night and told me,” said Rosie.

“Aw, what?” said Sam. “That’s not fair. That’s not her place.”

Rising to her feet, Rosie dusted straw off her knees and said, “I did tell her.” She ambled over to join Cowslip and gave Harebell a cursory look over. “Suits you.”

“Don’t it?” Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. Cowslip nuzzled at Harebell’s soft neck.

“Although,” said Rosie.

“Although?” said Sam.

“You aren’t half predictable, Sam Gamgee,” said Rosie.

“Well, I can’t help that,” said Sam. So what if Harebell had been a dog on and off all year? He’d found it reassuring. “Anyhow, what’s wrong with predictable? I like predictable.”

“I never said I didn’t _like_ it,” said Rosie. “I’m just saying – maybe I hoped you’d surprise me for a change.”

“I can be surprising,” Sam shot back.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” said Rosie.

“Well, you will,” said Sam. “See it, I mean. One of these days I’ll surprise you, Rosie Cotton.”

“Oh, yes?” said Rosie. “How?”

“I can’t hardly tell you, can I?” Sam bluffed. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise. And I won’t do it right away, mind. It might be – a number of years.” In truth, he didn’t know if he could ever surprise her. Rosie had a sharp mind. She’d been a step ahead of him as long as he could remember.

“Then it had better be a proper big surprise,” said Rosie.

“It will be,” said Sam.

There they were, sniping at each other like their dæmons’ weren’t downright snuggling two feet away. They were all but curled around each other and Harebell’s tail was thwacking the ground in obvious enjoyment.

Sam never knew how to feel when they did this, for he had an inkling it wasn’t proper behaviour and it never failed to make him deeply embarrassed – but it gave him a delicious light and fizzy feeling in his stomach that he couldn’t get enough of. And Rosie was smiling, her cheeks pink, idly swinging the egg basket.

“Does that mean you’re grown up now?” said Nibs.

Cowslip and Harebell sprang apart as Rosie and Sam both started. Sam was quite sure she’d forgotten little Nibs was watching, just as he had.

Anyhow, he considered the question and said, “yes. It does.”

“No it don’t,” said Rosie.

“But _you_ said, when you settled, that meant _you_ were grown up,” Nibs reminded her.

“Well, it’s different for boys,” Rosie said confidently.

“It ain’t,” said Sam.

“I don’t want you to be grown up,” said Nibs. His dæmon slipped into the shape of a puppy and nosed curiously at Harebell’s paws.

“Well,” said Sam. In truth he didn’t feel any more grown up than he had yesterday morning. A little more sure of himself, perhaps. Relieved that it was finally done. But not older. “That’s how it is.”

“Nibs, take the eggs in and stop bothering Hare,” said Rosie, pressing the basket on him.

Sam fought off a grin. There were only a few people outside of his sisters who’d call her _Hare_ and hearing that nickname on Rosie’s lips was something he treasured.

The kitchen door rattled shut and Rosie said, “Sam – she does look very handsome.”

“I know,” said Sam – perhaps brashly, but the fact was she _did_ look handsome. “So does Cowslip.”

“You said that when he settled,” said Rosie.

“Well, I did,” said Sam. “But I wanted to say it again.” Harebell nosed at his ankle and he knew she wanted him to tell Rosie that Cowslip was the prettiest dæmon in Hobbiton but he couldn’t hardly say _that_. “I’d best be going,” he said. “I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

Rosie smiled at that. “Came straight down here, did you?”

“I did,” Sam admitted. “And you’re busy, and I shouldn’t keep you.”

“I don’t mind,” said Rosie. Sam made to step away but Rosie caught his wrist. “Well done, Sam.”

Then, to Sam’s astonishment, she kissed him on the cheek.

Sam’s face burned and for a moment all he could do was stare at her. Then to his embarrassment he broke down into helpless giggles, even as he covered his mouth to keep them in.

“ _Honestly_ ,” said Rosie, rolling her eyes. “You get off afore your breakfast gets cold.”

“I will,” said Sam. “Um. Thanks and all. I’ll be going.”

Climbing the gate he shot a look back at Rosie and Cowslip, making their way to the kitchen door, and waved them goodbye; and as she waved back, Rosie flashed him her most brilliant smile.

*

“So anyhow, then Cousin Mosco – I told you about Mosco, didn’t I?”

“With the frog-dæmon and the breath?” said Sam.

“The very same,” said Frodo.

The Bagginses of Bag End had been away all week, visiting relatives over the hill. Sam hadn’t stopped by specially to say hello – he was in and out often enough helping his father, so he’d reasoned there was no need to disturb them – but he’d been passing and Frodo had seen him from the garden and called him over to talk. 

They stood on opposite sides of the stone wall, Frodo eager as ever to tell Sam all about the worst episodes of their week away.

“Cousin Mosco,” Frodo said again, leaning on the warm stone. “Who, by this point in the evening I should tell you is _outrageously_ drunk, decides the best way to distract Bilbo and Otho – which is a lost cause, by the by – might be to get out his fiddle –”

“He plays the fiddle?” said Sam. He’d never met Mosco Bracegirdle but from what he’d heard he didn’t sound like the musical type.

“Sort of,” said Frodo. “He certainly _thinks_ he can. Anyhow, I don’t think he meant to offend anyone but what he played was _Maids When You’re Young_ – do you know it?” He hummed a little.

“Oh, dear,” said Sam.

“Indeed,” said Frodo. “Otho took offence and I think if poor Mrs Bracegirdle hadn’t intervened he might have stuffed that fiddle somewhere _very_ painful.”

Sam choked with laughter. “Oh, dear me,” he managed.

“Thankfully we managed to slip away in the chaos,” said Frodo. “We hid in the pantry with the young Bracegirdles until suppertime – and then we managed to avoid them all till breakfast.”

“They’re always like that, eh?” said Sam.

“Every single year!” said Frodo. “Familial obligations, I ask you. Well, anyway.” He leaned eagerly over the wall. “Anything much happen in Hobbiton?”

“Nothing much,” said Sam. “Daffodil Goodson got engaged again.”

“I heard,” said Frodo. “How many’s that?”

“Three,” said Sam. “Or about that. Couple of the lads had a bit of a punch up Monday night down by the Green Dragon but it’s quieted down since. Pansy Grubb twisted both her ankles. And Harebell settled,” he said.

“What?” Frodo grabbed ahold of the wall. “Why didn’t you say so straight away?”

“It’s not that exciting, really,” said Sam. “I don’t want no –” He’d been going to say _fuss_ but to his confusion – and somewhat to his pleasure – Mr Frodo was scrambling clean over the wall in his eagerness to get a proper look at Harebell.

He hopped down the other side and said, “well, look at you!” He crouched to talk to Hare. “Oh, you’re gorgeous.”

“You don’t have to act surprised,” said Sam. “Everyone knew it was coming.”

“So?” said Frodo, looking over Harebell’s glossy ears and doggy smile, hands tucked safely in his pockets and Gentian fluttering excitedly about her.

“I’m a mite predictable,” Sam said.

“Dependable,” said Frodo. “Is the word. That’s one of the defining traits of dog-dæmons, you know,” he added confidently.

“Is it?” said Sam. “What are the others?”

Frodo rose to his feet and took his hands from his pockets, a faintly guilty look crossing his face. “Well,” he said. “Dog-dæmons are dependable – and friendly – and very loyal.”

“Is that so?” Sam rocked on the balls of his feet. He hadn’t thought along those lines before. He knew dog was right for him but it had always been more of a feeling, and not the sort he could put words to.

“Bilbo has a book,” said Frodo. “Of dæmon-shapes, and, and what they say about a person.”

“Do you know all of them?” said Sam in faint awe.

“Goodness me, no,” said Frodo, laughing. “It’s an enormous book,” he went on, showing Sam with his hands just how big it was. “I look up shapes sometimes. Out of interest.”

“Oh,” said Sam. He wanted dearly to ask what Frodo had been looking up dogs for but didn’t quite dare.

Frodo looked again at Harebell, who was beaming up at him. With a sigh he looked at Sam, and said, “I looked up dogs once I realised Hare was settling as one.”

“Oh!” said Sam. “What else did it say?”

“I don’t remember all of it,” said Frodo. “I can show you the book sometime, if you like.”

“What does it say about,” said Sam, and nodded at Gentian.

“Nothing much,” said Frodo. “It doesn’t cover much in the way of insects.”

“That’s a pity,” said Sam.

“Yes, I suppose,” said Frodo. “Well, anyway. When’s the party?”

“Tuesday week,” said Sam without thinking. “You don’t have to come, though, not if it’s any trouble.”

“No no, I’ll come,” said Frodo. “That is, if you want me there.”

“Course I want you there,” said Sam.

“Because you mustn’t feel obliged to have me,” said Frodo.

“I don’t feel obliged,” said Sam. In truth he didn’t think his sisters had been planning to invite the Bagginses but he didn’t think they’d mind. And after all, it was his party.

“Well, alright,” said Frodo with a smile. “Can I bring Bilbo?”

“Will he want to come?” said Sam.

“Of course,” said Frodo. “He loves settling parties. He says they’re the best kind of party, because they’re always a surprise.”

“I suppose so,” said Sam. “Of course. Of course you’re invited.”

“Splendid.” Frodo hopped up onto the wall, swinging his legs. Gentian settled upon Harebell’s ear and sat waving his wings. “This really is wonderful, Sam – I’m very happy for you.”

“I don’t want any fuss,” said Sam. “I just – what?” Frodo had cocked his head, and was giving him a curious look. “What?”

“Did you know you two have the same hair?” he said.

“Eh – what?” Sam’s hands went to his hair, which now that he thought of it was very like Harebell’s coat, if a shade or two more golden. “Do we?”

“You do,” said Frodo. “It’s charming.”

“Is it?” said Sam.

“Very,” said Frodo, and leaning over he gave Sam’s hair a friendly tousle.

Sam couldn’t quite keep his grin off his face. “I’d best be going on home,” he said.

“Give your regards to my sisters,” said Frodo. Gentian fluttered to his hat.

“I will, sir,” said Sam, and started down the path. He’d gone half a dozen steps or so when a thought struck him, and he turned. “What does the book say about chickens?”

“Chickens?” said Frodo. “I don’t know – ah. May?”

“That’s right,” said Sam.

“She’s not still –”

“No – no, I think she’s got to like it and all, but I was wondering,” said Sam.

“Nothing wrong with chickens,” said Frodo. “My father’s dæmon was a chicken.”

“Oh – really?” said Sam. That was news to him. Frodo didn’t speak much of his parents and Sam had never asked.

“We’ll look up chickens,” said Gentian. “And let you know.”

“Thank you,” said Sam. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Sam,” said Frodo, perched contently on the wall. “And congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sam said again. He turned about and sauntered on home, grinning like a loon.

His smile hadn’t left his face when he reached his own front gate. Marigold, sweeping the front step, looking at him and said, “what’s that face for?”

Sam looked up at the sky. He said, “just having a nice day - that's all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Maids When You're Young" is a... _bawdy_ folk song. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hi0yh4jpdBM).
> 
> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Sam and Harebell:** [red cocker spaniel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Bojars%27s_english_cocker_spaniel.jpg).  
>  **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).  
>  **Daisy and Sage:** [muntjac](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reeves%27s_muntjac#/media/File:Chinesischer_Muntjak_Muntiacus_reevesi_Zoo_Augsburg-04.jpg).  
>  **May and Blackthorn ("Blackie"):** [rooster](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SuGwrV1bCjg/Ul2CEu_csLI/AAAAAAAABQ8/9EdKinReL2k/s600/Buff+Orpington+Rooster.jpg).  
>  **Hamfast and Chicory:** [beaver](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_beaver#/media/File:Beaver_pho34.jpg).  
>  **Rosie and Cowslip:** [Balinese cat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balinese_cat#/media/File:Old-Style_Balinese_Cat.png).  
>  **Nibs and Buttercup ("Butter"):** unsettled.  
>  **Marigold and Fern:** unsettled.


	3. Inner Shift (Frodo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Was it normal, after settling, to wish the ground would swallow you up? **Was** there a normal way to feel after settling?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

5.

In the quiet of his bedroom, Frodo sat with a mug of tea, leafing through his new book. He flicked past two or three pages, then after a moment flicked back again. “ _There_ you are,” he said, smoothing out the page and pointing.

“Just here?” Gentian spread his wings and settled on the page, fitting himself nearly into the etching.

“Mm-hmm.” Frodo sipped his tea. “It says here you’re a pale tussock – and there’s your caterpillar, look.”

“Fancy.” Gentian fluttered.

“Certainly fuzzy.” Frodo took another sip of tea and rooted about for a bookmark. 

The book did not do Gentian justice, really. All of the etchings were plain line drawings and though the artist had tried to capture the delicate, feathery patterns on his wings, there was only so much one could do with a pen and ink.

He ran a finger very gently, very carefully down Gentian’s fluffy back, admiring. Gentian twitched his wings.

4.

“What are you _doing_?” said Merry, poking his head between the leaves into Frodo’s den.

Which was a fair question, Frodo supposed. One might very well ask why he was hiding inside a bush at his own birthday-and-settling party. “I am hiding,” he said, “from cousin Lobelia.”

“Oh, good.” Merry wriggled on in through the branches. Celly slithered past him, adder-shaped. “Can I hide too?”

“If you like,” said Frodo. “But I rather think you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I am not,” said Merry. “I’m allowed to stay up late for the party.”

“Not _this_ late,” said Frodo.

“Am so.” Sitting up, Merry clutched Celly kitten-shaped to his chest. Frodo gave them a look. “ _Fine_. I’m hiding from mother.”

“I won’t give you away,” Frodo assured him.

In truth, he wasn’t hiding from Lobelia, or not _only_ from Lobelia. He was hiding from the whole affair. He liked parties, as a rule, but this one was becoming taxing. Ordinarily for a formal settling party you’d say on the invitation what the dæmon in question had settled as, but this not _strictly_ being a settling party – and the invitations already having been sent – most of the guests had been surprised. He might even say startled.

 _That’s unique_ , they said. _How curious. And you not even twenty_! That was one he’d heard at least thrice. _A moth – how delightful_. He could see in their eyes that they were downright confused and somewhat uneasy.

“Is Celly going to settle?” said Merry.

“Sooner or later,” said Frodo.

“Soon?” said Merry, quietly horrified.

“Probably not until you’re in your tweens,” Frodo reassured him.

“ _Yuck_.” Merry pulled a face. Frodo laughed. “S’not funny. We don’t _want_ to. And, and you’re not in your tweens and Genty settled.”

“I wanted to get it over with,” said Gentian from Frodo’s waistcoat pocket.

“But this means we can’t play any more,” said Celly in a plaintive little voice.

“And _why_ does Celly have to settle?” said Merry.

“That’s just how it is,” said Frodo. “You’d be better off talking to your mother about this.”

“Don’t _want_ to ask mother,” said Merry. “S’not fair. Bein’ settled looks so _boring_.”

“Look at it this way,” said Frodo, leaning in closer. “When your Celly settles, it’ll be because she’s found a shape she can’t ever get bored of.”

“Ohh,” said Merry.

“That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” said Frodo.

“S’pose not.” Merry wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Frodo. “You’ve already asked me a lot of questions.”

Merry wrapped his hands around his knees, and said, “why is Genty a boy?”

For a moment Frodo’s blood froze. But of course, Merry meant nothing by it. “Oh,” he said. “That.”

“My new tutor,” Merry said at once.

“Mr Smelly Peppermint?” said Frodo.

“Yes, him,” said Merry. “ _He_ said yesterday that all boys have girl dæmons and all girls have boy dæmons, so _I_ said my cousin Frodo is a boy and his dæmon is a boy.”

“What did he say to that?” said Frodo.

“He said _Merry don’t talk back_ and then he said _do your sums_ ,” said Merry. “So I asked mother and she said _Merry never you mind_. So then I asked Hob in the kitchen –”

“Oh, good grief,” said Frodo.

“And _he_ said I wasn’t old enough to know,” Merry finished. “And, and Mr Peppermint was right. All the other boys have girl dæmons. So why is Genty a boy?”

“Ah,” said Frodo. He supposed he ought to have expected this sooner or later. Merry had a knack for coming out with the most frightful questions. “Well – that’s a difficult question.”

“Why?” said Merry. “Don’t say you’ll tell me when I’m older because you _won’t_.”

“No no, it’s not that,” said Frodo. “It’ just. Oh, look, Merry, I don’t know.” Merry gazed up at him with big, confused eyes. “I don’t think anyone really knows.”

“Nobody knows?” said Merry. “Nobody in the _world_?”

“Nobody I know knows,” said Frodo.

Merry reflected on that for a moment. Celly wriggled out of his grip and turned thoughtfully into a hedgehog. “I bet Gandalf knows,” he said.

“Maybe,” said Frodo, though he doubted it.

“I’ll ask him,” said Merry.

“Good luck with that,” said Frodo.

“Does Gandalf know everything?” said Merry.

“I don’t think anyone knows _everything_ ,” said Frodo. “But I imagine he knows most things.”

“Hmm.” Merry lifted Celly up and passed her spiky body from hand to hand. Most likely they were talking, in that way hobbits had of talking with their dæmons without _actually_ talking. “Why,” he said at length

“Hm?” said Frodo.

“Why did Hob say I wasn’t old enough to know?” said Merry.

Some day, Frodo reflected, once he’d got wiping his own nose worked out and learned all of his times tables, one day Merry was going to be smart as a whip. “Ah. That.”

“Well, why?” said Celly, still squirming in Merry’s hands.

Merry did so hate being told he wasn’t old enough to hear things. “Oh, Merry,” Frodo sighed. “Merry, Merry, Merry – come here,” he said, hefting Merry into his lap. Merry giggled. “Merry.”

“Yes?” said Merry, flopping back against his chest.

“Some people,” said Frodo, looping his arms around Merry’s waist, “some people think that, if you’re a boy and your dæmon is a boy, it means – something bad.”

“Why?” said Merry.

“Because they’re not very clever,” said Frodo. “Not like you. Right? You’re clever so you understand that it doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“I _am_ clever,” Merry agreed. He tilted his head back and said, “Mr Peppermint says I’m _in-sufferable_.”

Frodo laughed. “I’m sure you are.”

Merry wriggled in his lap. “What do they think it means?”

“Well.” Frodo paused as if thinking about it, as if he wasn’t acutely aware of all the various things people had to say about dæmons like his. “Some people think it means... you’re a witch.”

Merry burst out laughing. “You’re not a witch!”

“Of course I’m not,” said Frodo. “That would be ridiculous.”

“But,” said Merry.

“But what?” said Frodo.

“But,” Merry twisted around to look up at him, “that’s just what you’d say if you _was_ a witch.”

“Don’t you dare,” said Frodo.

“And, and,” said Merry. “You _do_ have a witchy dæmon –”

“I do not!” said Frodo. He gripped Merry tighter. “Shush, you! Don’t make me be the tickle monster.”

“No!”

“I will,” said Frodo into Merry’s ear. “I’ll be the tickle monster.”

“No!” said Merry, struggling. “No tickles! I’ll be good.”

“You’d better,” said Frodo, releasing him. Merry crawled out of his lap and sat down upon the bare earth.

Celly changed from a hedgehog into a sleek water-rat. Merry stroked her back. “What else do they say?”

“Pardon?” said Frodo.

“You said _some_ people.”

“Ah,” said Frodo. “Alright.” He rested his chin on his hand in thought. Gentian settled lightly on his ear and though he said nothing, Frodo found himself convinced. “Alright. I shall tell you, because _I_ think you’re old enough. But you have to _promise_ not to tell your mother and father I told you. Agree?”

“Alright.” Scooping Celly up, Merry stroked her again.

“And I mean _really_ promise,” said Frodo. “I know what you’re like. You _cannot_ tell them about this.”

“I won’t tell!” Merry’s ears were pricked up. There was nothing he liked more than hearing something he knew his mother wouldn’t want him to.

“You have to _double_ promise,” said Frodo. “Because it’s my double party, remember? A special double party promise.”

“I special double party promise,” said Merry earnestly.

“What about Celly?” said Frodo.

Celly took her face from Merry’s elbow and said, bright-eyed, “I special double party promise too.”

“Alright,” said Frodo. “And I really do mean _can’t_ tell. You could get _me_ into real trouble. Do you understand?”

Merry nodded, mute with anticipation.

Frodo drummed his fingers on the ground, trying to decide how best to go on. “Some people think that if you’re a boy and your dæmon is a boy – or if you’re a girl and your dæmon is a girl, I suppose – then it means you. Go the other way,” he said, knowing full well Merry wouldn’t understand.

Merry screwed up his face. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means,” said Frodo. “Well. It means. Well, if you’re a boy and you go the other way then instead of falling in love with girls you fall in love with, other boys.”

Merry’s face screwed up into a quite different expression of confusion. Celly squirmed out of his arms and turned into a frog, one of her favourite thinking-shapes. “I didn’t know you could do that,” Merry said at length.

“Well, you can,” said Frodo.

“Can girls fall in love with other girls?” said Merry.

“Yes,” Frodo declared confidently. In truth he’d never met a girl who went that way, but then he’d never met any other boys either. He didn’t really have the first idea.

“Fancy,” said Merry. “But why’s that bad?”

“It isn’t,” said Frodo. “It’s not bad at all. It’s just – some people don’t like it.”

“Why?” said Merry.

“I suppose it’s just that it’s not the way hobbits normally do things,” said Frodo. “You know how there are some things that are, are – are good and fun, but lots of hobbits don’t like them and say you shouldn’t do them?”

Merry thought on that for a moment. “Like Cousin Bilbo’s stories?”

“Yes!” said Frodo. “Just like that. This is one of those things.”

“ _I_ see,” said Merry. “But. That’s _not_ what it means if your dæmon is a boy?”

“No – no, I don’t think it is,” said Frodo.

“Dæmons are confusinger than I thought,” sighed Merry.

“Although,” said Frodo. “Merry – can I tell you a secret?”

“Always,” said Merry, sitting up straighter.

“And you really can’t tell _anyone_ ,” said Frodo. “Not a soul. Understand?”

“I won’t tell,” said Merry. “I _triple_ party promise.”

“Good on you,” said Frodo. “Alright – you see, these past few months, I’ve got to thinking – maybe _I_ might go the other way.”

It was too dark under the bush for him to properly see Merry’s face but the look on it was, if anything, one of profound confusion. “So,” said Merry, “you love boys?”

“Well, I’d like to,” said Frodo.

“You love boys and your dæmon is a boy,” said Merry. “But your dæmon isn’t a boy because you love boys?”

“That’s about the long and short of it,” said Frodo. “I think it’s just a big coincidence.”

“What’s a coincidence?” said Merry.

“Oh, well, a coincidence,” said Frodo. “That’s when two things happen at the same time, but not _because_ of each other?”

“A _coincidence_ ,” Merry repeated, tasting the new word. He rocked back and forth, considering it. “Like that time I touched Cousin Lobelia’s vase and it fell over?”

“Not like that,” said Frodo.

“Why not?” said Merry.

“I think you might have pushed the vase, Merry,” said Frodo.

“Didn’t.”

“I think you did.”

“No.”

“I think you gave it a little push,” said Frodo. Merry shook his head. “Just a little one. One little push.”

“I didn’t!” said Merry.

“Gentle push,” Frodo suggested.

“It was an ugly vase,” said Merry.

“It _was_ ,” said Frodo. “So ugly.”

“So,” said Merry. “That was a good coincidence.”

“It was good, but it wasn’t a coincidence,” said Frodo. “A coincidence would be – my settling coming around my birthday.”

“ _I_ see,” said Merry. “So will you marry a boy?”

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” said Frodo.

“Why not?” said Merry. Frodo shrugged. “When I’m Master of Buckland I’ll make it so boys can marry boys and you can marry as many boys as you want.”

“Oh, really?” said Frodo. “Can I marry a dozen boys?”

“Yes,” said Merry.

“Can I marry… a hundred boys?”

Merry considered the matter. “ _Yes_ ,” he said emphatically. Celly changed from a frog to a moth and fluttered up to join Gentian amongst the leaves. “ _Would_ you marry a boy? If it was allowed?”

“I don’t know,” said Frodo. “I think I’d like to.”

“I wish I could marry a boy,” said Merry. “I don’t want to marry a girl. Girls are yucky.”

“Except me,” said a little voice from within the bush.

“Except Celly,” Merry corrected.

“You might feel different when you’re older,” said Frodo. “Most people do, I, I think.” He glanced around as if to check there was no-one else under the bush. “They _are_ yucky, though,” he said, sending Merry off into fits of giggles.

A noise, outside the bush. “Hush!” Frodo hissed. Merry hushed, hearing it too; a voice calling from the other end of the garden.

“Merry!” cried the voice, drawing closer. “Merry! Come in out of the garden.”

Merry looked as if he might be about to giggle again, so Frodo pressed a hand to his mouth and tugged him closer.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck!” called Cousin Esmerelda. “It’s past your bedtime!”

A soft giggle, Celly’s, from the bush. Too soft to carry beyond their ears.

“Merry!” she was moving away. “ _Now_ , Merry!”

Merry squirmed. Frodo held on tighter, held him till he heard the distant _snick_ of a latch. He took his hand from Merry’s mouth.

“Did she go inside?” said Merry.

“I think so,” said Frodo. He stroked Merry’s hair.

After a moment, Merry said, “were you frightened?”

“What, just now?” said Frodo.

“No, when Genty settled,” said Merry. “Were you frightened?”

“No, not at all,” said Frodo.

“Not even a bit?” said Merry.

“Well – maybe a bit,” said Frodo.

With a rustle of wings, Gentian came to perch on his shoulder. “It was the good kind of scared,” he told Merry.

“I didn’t know there was a good kind of scared,” said Merry.

“There’s lots of good kinds of scared,” said Gentian. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” he added with a hunt of a smile in his voice.

“Hm,” said Merry, slighted.

Frodo gave him a squeeze. “Do you want to go back to the party?” he said. “I bet if we’re quick we can lose her in the crowd.”

“Let’s,” said Merry.

3.

“Now, there’s my favourite birthday boy!” cried Bilbo. “Come here, you!” Grabbing Frodo about the middle, he made a valiant attempt to pick him up.

“Careful,” Frodo laughed. “I’m too big for that.”

“Oof,” said Bilbo, setting him down. “My! Aren’t you just. You’ve gone up like a sunflower.” He patted Frodo’s head. “You’ll be as big as me soon. When did you get so tall?”

“Over the summer, mostly,” said Frodo. He threw his arms around Bilbo and hugged him properly. “You’ve been away _ages_.”

“I’ve been very busy,” said Bilbo.

“Doing what?” Frodo disentangled himself from the hug.

Bilbo looked over his shoulder at the cousins and aunts and uncles swarming the garden. The party wasn’t quite in its swing yet. The Bucklanders of course had been there all morning, but guests were still trailing in from further afield, most of them obscure relatives whose names Frodo was expected to know.

But hobbits being hobbits, the eating and drinking had begun hours ago and the gardens of Brandy Hall were heaving with noise and laughter and singing.

“I’ll tell you later,” Bilbo said, and winked.

“What are you up to?” said Frodo. When Bilbo didn’t answer, he crouched and said to Poppy, “what’s he up to?”

“We’re not _up to_ anything,” said Poppy. “And good afternoon to you too, young sir.”

“Good afternoon,” said Frodo, laughing at her stern manner. “How are you?”

Poppy was a hare, lanky and amber-eyed and, as long as Frodo could remember, grey and whiskery around the muzzle. She’d once confessed to Gentian that she was getting creaky about the joints, though to Frodo’s eyes she was graceful as ever. “Still saddled with _this_ lout,” she said, jerking her head at Bilbo.

“Enough of that,” said Bilbo as Frodo clambered to his feet. “Now, where’s my other favourite boy hiding? Genty?”

“I’m not hiding,” said Gentian, emerging from behind Frodo’s ear. “I’m just very small. And it’s Gentian now I’m settled.”

“Gentian it is,” said Bilbo. “Hold still and let me look at you properly.” Gentian alighted on Frodo’s wrist and Bilbo bent to inspect him. “Well! Aren’t you beautiful.”

He said it like he really meant it. That was the thing with Bilbo; well-spoken and eloquent as he was, he could damn with faint praise like a master and deliver an insult so like a compliment that his target wouldn’t realise they’d been slighted till they were in their beds. But he’d never truly compliment someone and not mean it. 

“I’m so proud of you,” said Bilbo to Gentian. “Both of you,” he added, and he tousled Frodo’s hair and Frodo thought he might smile himself silly.

“How long are you staying?” he said.

“Only the night,” said Bilbo. Frodo’s face fell. “Now, don’t look like that. I’m a very busy hobbit.”

“I wish we didn’t live so far apart,” said Frodo.

“Well.” Bilbo stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we ought to do something about that one of these days.”

“Eh?” said Frodo.

Before Bilbo could answer, Poppy was set upon by a yipping beagle puppy, who knocked her to the ground and stood atop her, tongue lolling out in delighted excitement; and a moment later Bilbo was tackled himself by a foot and a half of bright blue party suit and curly hair.

“Cousin Bilbo, Cousin Bilbo!” Merry cried as Celly pinned poor Poppy to the grass.

“Oh, my!” said Bilbo. “Careful, now. Goodness, which one are you?”

“I’m Merry,” said Merry, most indignant.

Bilbo looked to Frodo. “Esmerelda’s boy,” Gentian said into his ear.

“Ah! Merry!” said Bilbo. Merry held up his arms not so much in request as in command, and Bilbo duly heaved him upwards. “Oof! Aren’t you getting heavy.”

“Celly, be polite,” Frodo said. Celly climbed off Poppy and shrank at once into a little rabbit.

“Cousin Bilbo, we went boating all the way up to Girdley Island and I saw a heron,” said Merry. “And, and, Berry lost a tooth and Genty settled, and I have a tutor now and he smells like peppermint and he tried to give me a peppermint and I _hate_ peppermint and I said his dæmon should be called peppermint and he got angry at me, and Genty _settled_ and tell me about the dragon again.” Merry drew an overdue breath.

“Good gracious, you have been busy,” said Bilbo, laughing. At his feet Poppy gave Celly an affectionate nuzzle.

“The dragon, Cousin Bilbo, the _dragon_ ,” said Merry.

“Maybe later,” said Bilbo. “I’m sure Cousin Frodo wants a hug too.”

As it happened Frodo had already had two birthday hugs but he didn’t have time to say so even if he’d wanted to, for Bilbo tumbled Merry into his arms at once. He staggered. Merry was getting a touch too big to carry around.

Merry evidently agreed, for he began to squirm at once. Frodo plonked him down on the lawn and pointed in the direction of the house. “Merry – cake.”

“Cake!” cried Merry and he was off like a hare, Celly loping at his heels.

“See, he’s easy to handle,” said Frodo.

Bilbo was gazing off yearningly after Merry. “Cake?” he said. Poppy cleared her throat.

“Bilbo!” said Frodo.

“Oh – yes,” said Bilbo.

“Bilbo, the – the thing,” said Poppy.

“Oh! The thing,” said Bilbo, and he reached for his bag, rooting through the assortment of papers inside. “Where have I put it – ah!” He brought out a flat parcel wrapped in brown paper and gave it a quick dust with his sleeve. “Here we are. For you.”

“For me?” Frodo took the parcel.

“Well, it’s my birthday too!” said Bilbo. “I can give as many presents as I want, and I intend to.”

“I forgot!” said Frodo. “Happy birthday.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bilbo. “Now get on and open it.”

“Oh!” said Frodo.

Opening it was a challenge. Bilbo always did do a horrendous job wrapping parcels. Frodo fought his way through the knotted string and wrestled with the curiously-folded paper and found himself holding – as he’d expected – a book, the wrong way around.

“Turn it over!” said Bilbo.

Frodo turned the book over. _The Insects and Spiders of the Fourth Farthings by S. Boffin_ he read.

“A relative, I think,” said Bilbo. Poppy sat twitching her ears. “Had a bit of a fascination.”

“It looks interesting,” said Frodo.

“I thought you might like to see if you can find Genty here – Gentian, I mean. See what it is he’s turned into,” Bilbo explained.

“Oh!” Frodo opened the book at once, leafing through and looking at the delicate etchings. “That’s so thoughtful – do you want it back once I’m finished?”

“No – no,” said Bilbo.

“Are you sure?” said Frodo. He knew how precious Bilbo was about his library. “Because –”

“Keep it,” said Poppy.

“Thank-you,” Frodo said to her. “Thank-you,” he said again to Bilbo. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Well, it’s a very special occasion,” said Bilbo. “It’s our birthday _and_ your settling party.”

“A double party?” said a voice behind them. Merry, his face and his dæmon smeared with icing.

“Yes!” said Bilbo. “A double party – and doubly important.”

From the general direction of the house, Frodo heard a familiar squawking voice an already-familiar yipping bark of a dæmon. “Oh, no.”

“Hm?” said Bilbo.

“I think your favourite relations have arrived,” said Frodo.

Sure enough through the garden door waddled a round and fluffy little dog-dæmon; at her heels, Cousin Lotho and Cousin Lobelia, her cuckoo-dæmon smugly decorating her hat.

“Oh, good gracious!” Bilbo clutched at him.

“Best get somewhere inconspicuous,” said Gentian.

“I quite agree,” said Bilbo. “Hide me!”

Frodo grabbed Bilbo’s arm and together, Merry trotting stickily behind them, they hastened into the crowd.

2.

Breakfast in Brandy Hall was often a shambolic affair. It was what came, Frodo had concluded, of having more kitchens and dining rooms than you knew what to do with. The more Brandybuck friends and relations and assorted hangers-on were packed into the hill the more chaotic it became.

That morning, the dining table had divided itself into two neat halves, with Brandybucks (and other assorted Bucklanders) on one side and Bagginses (and other assorted West Farthing folk) on the other. Frodo took the last seat at the children’s end of the table – which happened to be on the Buckland side – and waited for the tea to work its way down to him.

When it arrived it was lukewarm. He poured himself a cup and Gentian fluttered out from his hiding place behind Frodo’s ear, settling on the rim of the teacup for a sip.

“What’s _that_?” said Cousin Angelica. She was sitting in the opposing seat on the Baggins side of the table.

Gentian turned a circle on the rim of their teacup and said, “I’m a moth.”

Cousin Angelica’s dæmon – that morning in the shape of a pink-eyed white rabbit – scrambled up onto the table and said, “that’s creepy. Be something else.”

With a flutter of his wings Gentian said, “I can’t.”

“What?” said Cousin Angelica around her tea spoon.

Shooing Gentian off the cup onto the table, Frodo said, “Gentian settled last night.”

He hadn’t been sure how to go about telling people. It had been a while since any of the Brandybucks and hangers-on in Brandy Hall had settled and he couldn’t recall how they’d gone about breaking the news. Most likely they’d told their parents and their parents had spread the news but he didn’t have that more conventional option. The first person to ask it was, even if the first person to ask was Cousin Angelica.

Cousin Angelica looked at Gentian with an expression of mild disgust. She looked at Frodo. “As _that_?”

“Yes,” said Frodo. Gentian hopped up onto his wrist.

“Do you… _mind_?” she said.

Frodo looked down at Gentian, mostly hidden beneath his own wings. “I rather like it,” he said.

Cousin Angelica looked at Gentian once again. She said, “ _really_?”

“Angelica Baggins, that’s very rude,” said Cousin Esmerelda, looming up behind Frodo. “Don’t make personal remarks about another hobbit’s dæmon.”

Angelica pouted and mumbled a begrudging apology.

Cousin Esmerelda looked at Gentian, who was now most of the way up Frodo’s arm. To Frodo, she said, “you’re not having another party.”

“That’s alright, I wasn’t expecting one,” said Frodo. He’d expected perhaps a _well done_ or a _congratulations_.

In truth the last thing he wanted was another party. This one was turning out to be troublesome enough, with the number of obscure relatives invited whose names he was expected to know and the solid month and a half of it being waved in his face every time Cousin Esmerelda wanted a reason to call him ungrateful.

Behind him, he heard the soft _bawk_ of her peacock-dæmon that he’d learned a long time ago meant he disapproved. But for once in a while it appeared to be addressed to Cousin Esmerelda herself. She looked askance. “Well done, then,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder before moving off down the table to join her husband.

Angelica’s dæmon wrinkled his pink nose, and turned from a rabbit into a white-winged butterfly – the closest he’d come to actually mirroring Gentian’s new form. Gentian joined him on the edge of the butter dish.

“I suppose it could have been worse,” she said. “He could have settled as a slug.”

“What’s wrong with slugs?” said Frodo. “I like slugs.”

“You’re weird,” said Angelica.

“Slugs are nice,” said Frodo, and sipped his tea.

“Cousin Esmerelda, Frodo’s being weird again,” said Angelica, to an indifferent response.

Beneath the table, something brushed Frodo’s leg. There was a soft fumbling, and then silence. Lifting the corner of the table cloth, he said, “hello?”

The only response was a further muted fumbling of hands and feet and paws on carpet. At length, two pairs of brown eyes appeared peeping over the end of the table.

Little Merry’s eyes were trained on Gentian, with an expression of puzzlement and shock and terror. It was a blend of emotions Frodo remembered acutely. It was just how he’d felt, the first time one of _his_ older cousins had settled and he’d had _that_ realisation.

Leaning forward, he said, “good morning.”

Both sets of eyes flicked over to his face, if anything all the more horrified.

“Do you want your breakfast?” said Frodo.

That did it. With a prolonged cry of, “ _no_!” Merry fled the dining room, Celly galloping dog-shaped in his wake. The door slammed shut behind him, juddering the pictures on the walls.

Cousin Scattergold looked up from his bacon. “What’s got into him?” he said.

Before Frodo could say anything at all, Angelica declared, “Genty settled!”

“Ah,” said Cousin Scattergold. His eyes, still dopey from sleep, rolled about the dining room as he considered his options: his younger cousin, arguably his responsibility, and his newly settled dæmon; his even younger son, patently distraught and _definitely_ his responsibility; the far more appealing prospect of his bacon.

He went back to the bacon, though his hind-dæmon trotted a little way down the table for a better look at Gentian.

“Which one’s Genty?” said Angelica’s mother Bryony Baggins from the other end of the table.

“The lad’s dæmon,” said her husband, Frodo’s Cousin Ponto.

“Oh,” said Cousin Bryony. “Settled was what?”

“I’ll go and have a look,” said Cousin Ponto.

Frodo was struck by a sudden and acute urge to cover Gentian up. Was it normal, after settling, to wish the ground would swallow you up? _Was_ there a normal way to feel after settling?

Cousin Ponto came ambling down the table, his wood mouse dæmon riding in his waistcoat pocket. Both of them were peering at Frodo in that dreadfully gossipy way the Bagginses all had.

Frodo gave into temptation. Gentian flew down onto the table top, into the shadow of Frodo’s cupped hands, and they sat like that. Gentian’s quivering wings tickled his palms.

“Well, let me see,” said Cousin Ponto.

“Do I have to?” said Frodo.

And then ensured a sort of protracted staring contest punctuated by Angelica mashing her eggs and toast into a paste. Cousin Ponto stared at Frodo. Frodo stared back. Cousin Ponto cleared his throat. Frodo did not uncup his hands. Cousin Ponto continued to stare, his dæmon leaning half out of his pocket, her eyes beady and bright and nosy.

He _probably_ , Frodo decided, couldn’t keep it up until Cousin Ponto got bored, for he didn’t bore easily. That was the problem with boring people. And besides, he needed his hands to eat his breakfast. He uncovered Gentian.

At once, their attention drawn by the curious stand-off, every eye of every relation and dæmon around the table was on Gentian’s tiny, winged body. Every eye turned, in turn, to Cousin Ponto, eager for his reaction.

“Well, she’s,” said Cousin Ponto, and cleared his throat again, “very pretty.”

Very earnestly, and to the _entire_ table’s riveted ears, Cousin Angelica announced, “Genty’s a boy.”

And then came that look. He’d been aware of _that_ look since he was little but only in the last year or two had he come to understand it. It was a look that blended confusion with withering pity. It was a look that said _what on earth_ and _you poor soul_ with a dash of _that’s not right_.

Frodo had for a long while harboured an unpleasant suspicion he had been trying not to think about; that his numerous relations were expecting that, sooner or later, Gentian would give up on being a boy and turn into a girl dæmon, a normal dæmon, a _proper_ dæmon. He had an unpleasant suspicion that now Gentian was settled, they were going to realise that wasn’t going to happen.

To Angelica, he said, “I hope Bitty _does_ settle as a slug.”

Angelica’s mouth fell open in horror and Bitty, rabbit-shaped once again, leapt into her arms. Knowing Angelica if her father wasn’t there she’d have had something equally vicious to say back. Instead, she bawled.

“Frodo!” said Cousin Esmerelda as Cousin Ponto tried to comfort his daughter. “That’s very unkind.”

Slumping down very low in his chair, Frodo said, “sorry.”

“And sit up straight,” said Cousin Esmerelda.

Frodo sat up straight.

1.

They hadn’t banked on the rain.

Frodo and Gentian had banked on going down to the copse for a few hours and being back at the hall in time for supper. But then the heavens had opened and down had come the first of the autumn rain and their plans had been well and truly scuppered.

They’d been under the hawthorn tree for over an hour, waiting for it to stop. In Brandy Hall they’d be finishing supper and though Frodo was hungry, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Gentian was coiled around his wrist and halfway up his arm in the shape of a vibrantly green snake. His skin in this form was very smooth, pleasingly cool to the touch. Not, Frodo was certain, a local snake. There were no snakes in the Shire quite so colourful.

Dæmons, Cousin Bilbo was fond of saying, were the great equaliser. Everyone had one, from peasants to kings, and the lowliest peasant and the mightiest king could have dæmons that took the same shape.

Bilbo always spoke with great confidence, for he had met kings. Of course, being elves and dwarves the kings he’d met had no dæmons, but Frodo didn’t point that out. It was a nice sentiment.

Hobbits didn’t have kings and they didn’t really have peasants either. Hobbits’ dæmons tended to settle as things with fur and things with feathers. Gentian tried to stick with the furry and feathery beasts of the world around other hobbits, especially when they had guests. At lunch he had taken it upon himself to turn into a long centipede and had frightened Cousin Angelica and they’d had a tough time convincing their relations they hadn’t done it on purpose.

Gentian shifted his weight against the soft skin of his wrist and Frodo felt a familiar twinge of restlessness. He was about to change his shape. “Wait a moment,” he said, and brought Gentian close to his eyes.

Flicking out his tongue Gentian said with more than a hunt of amusement in his voice, “what are you doing?”

“I am committing you to memory,” said Frodo, “so I can look you up in one of Cousin Bilbo’s books.”

“Go on, then,” said Gentian.

Cousin Bilbo had a whole shelf of books he’d collected over the years, books all about animals that lived beyond the Shire, animals from all over the world, with descriptions and drawings.

Every so often, Bilbo told them, he’d get a knock on the door from a confused young hobbit. Sometimes they had a parent or two in tow and sometimes they came alone. They’d be holding a funny-looking lizard or a brightly-coloured bird or a long-haired monkey and they’d ask, meekly, for a look at his books. To find out just what they’d settled as. To find out just who they _were_.

Frodo had pored over those books with Gentian, trying out all the interesting new shapes. He’d thought for a while that his Gentian was sure to be one of _those_ dæmons, that one of those days he and Bilbo would sit down with the books and a puzzle of a dæmon to solve. But now he was ever more sure that Gentian was going to settle local, like most hobbit-dæmons.

Gentian liked to play with foreign forms but he was most at home as the cold-blooded, quiet creatures of the Shire, and probably always would be.

He finished his inspection, and at once Gentian turned into a bat. He fluttered to Frodo’s shoulder and said into his ear, “you’re not upset about the centipede, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Frodo. It would take a lot more than _that_ for him to be upset with Gentian.

“It was a good shape,” said Gentian. “Flexible. I liked all the legs.”

“Mm,” said Frodo. He leaned his head back against the damp tree back and said, “how much trouble do you think we’ll be in tonight?”

“They might not notice us gone,” said Gentian.

“They will,” said Frodo. “We’re the birthday boy.”

Tell them that,” said Gentian, and Frodo snorted.

Buckland was full of wild, odd places. Frodo liked to hike out to them and pretend that he was on a long journey, alone in the wilds of Middle Earth with his dæmon and his wits. A journey without any purpose but to explore, and to learn.

He couldn’t do that, of course. But one day Cousin Bilbo might decide to go on another journey, and he might take Frodo with him. Frodo had never dared ask, of course, but he harboured a deep and yearning belief that if Bilbo had to choose a travelling companion, it would be him.

“You’d get very homesick,” Gentian said softly into his ear. Of course, he knew just what Frodo had been thinking.

“Worth it,” Frodo assured him. “Don’t you think?”

“I think the rain’s stopping,” said Gentian.

“Is it?” said Frodo. He’d been lost in thought but Gentian was right. The patter of rain on the ground had begun to fade.

“Let’s see,” said Gentian, and he flew from Frodo’s shoulder out into the rain.

“Genty!” Frodo burst out, reaching for him. Gentian was lost to his eyes at once, a black dart against the night. Leaning forward upon his knees he searched for him but saw nothing.

A tug below his ribs, not painful, not quite, but stomach-churning. Gentian had reached the limit of their bond. He would go no further. “Genty?” Frodo said again.

Gentian was fluttering about in the rain, at the end of their tether. Frodo couldn’t see him but he could feel him there, feel the motion of his wings, feel his mind turning. What Gentian was feeling he could only describe as _delight_.

He felt the inner shift of a change.

Through the rain Gentian flew back to him. He had shrunk, but not until he was under the tree, in the lantern-light could Frodo see what he had become. He held out his cupped hands, and Gentian alighted.

He was in the shape of a moth, grey and wide as Frodo’s palm. His wings were damp, and not just from the rain. Damp and wrinkled as if he’d just emerged from a cocoon. This was new and Frodo’s heart jumped in his chest, knowing what was happening, not daring to think it lest he was wrong.

Gentian spread and flexed his wings, shaking them dry. He twitched his new feelers. He looked up at Frodo, a silent question at the forefront of his mind.

He was so light that Frodo could barely feel his weight, and his wings wore so many shades of grey and white and cream. Soft, downy, like a tiny bird. His face was two large, black eyes, his vision and senses quite unlike Frodo’s.

He’d known they were close to this but he’d thought another year at least. It felt strange – thrilling – beautiful. It felt _settled_.

Gentian was gazing up at him steadily, that unspoken question still in his mind. For long moments Frodo couldn’t find words.

He said, “you’re perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Named dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).  
>  **Bilbo and Poppy:** [brown hare](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/European_hare#/media/File:Lepus_europaeus_\(Causse_M%C3%A9jean,_Loz%C3%A8re\)-cropped.jpg).  
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Celly"):** unsettled.  
>  **Angelica and Crystal ("Bitty"):** unsettled.
> 
> Unnamed dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Lobelia Sackville-Baggins:** [common cuckoo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_cuckoo#/media/File:Cuculus_canorus_vogelartinfo_chris_romeiks_CHR0791_cropped.jpg).  
>  **Lotho Sackville Baggins:** [Pekingese](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pekingese#/media/File:1AKC_Pekingese_Dog_Show_2011.jpg).  
>  **Saradoc "Scattergold" Brandybuck:** [red deer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_deer#/media/File:Red_deer_\(Cervus_elaphus\)_hind.jpg).  
>  **Esmerelda Brandybuck:** [peacock](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peafowl#/media/File:Peacock_Plumage.jpg).  
>  **Ponto Baggins:** [wood mouse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wood_mouse#/media/File:Apodemus_sylvaticus_\(Sardinia\).jpg).


	4. Stillness (Pippin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The truth was, he’d come to think of settling as something that happened to other people._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

Whether it was true night or not, Pippin and Windflower couldn’t say. A shadow had passed over Minas Tirith and their days had become a haze of smoke and darkness and noise. He had lost track of the hours.

But his lord had given him leave to rest, so Pippin would pretend it was night, and pretend the rumbling upon the edge of his hearing was thunder, and try to sleep. When had he last slept – he wasn’t sure. He was tired right down to his bones, his eyes burning and his head swimming. Windflower roosted upon his shoulder, too tired to fly or talk or to do anything but press herself into his neck and shudder.

He crawled into the pallet bed set aside for him in the depths of the citadel and there sat rubbing at his eyes, waiting for Windflower to turn into something better for sleeping.

Windflower didn’t change. He took his hands away from his eyes and looked at her, thinking she must have something more to say, but she only stared, her eyes two bright points in the shadows of the alcove.

She had been a rabbit every night as long as he could remember and she was as tired as he was. But still she hadn’t changed. She perched upon the edge of the pallet, stubbornly in the same of a blue tit. 

It took Pippin’s bleary, sleep-deprived mind long moments to understand what had happened. He said, “oh.”

“Oh,” Windflower echoed.

Pippin scrubbed again at his eyes. “ _Now_?”

“Looks that way,” she said.

There were a lot of things he probably ought to have said, and a lot of things he ought to have thought. There were a lot of things Windflower should have said. He was too tired to say or think any of them. 

He said, “I’m going to sleep.”

He lay his head down upon the pillow and Windflower cuddled up beside him, nestling in her own wings. He rested a hand on her downy back, missing her rabbit-fur, and forgot everything.

*

“I thought you were dead,” said Merry.

“Hm?” said Pippin. 

His thoughts had been elsewhere and nowhere all at once. He became aware that Merry’s arm was around his shoulders. He wasn’t sure he wanted it there but he didn’t have the strength to shrug it off.

Merry’s eyes were on Windflower.

Windflower felt strange – distant – far away. She hadn’t spoken a word, since it had happened. When he’d woken, when he’d come back to himself, he’d thought for a moment he’d lost her. It had been Grumpy who had found her, hidden in the long grass and the darkness in the shape of a featherless baby bird.

He remembered, bitterly, Windflower running about his feet as a field mouse, a mere rustle in the grass and a voice. “You idiot!” she’d been saying. “You’re going to get us in trouble. Put it back, quick!”

She was a wren now, and she crawled into the shadow of his hood, away from Merry’s piercing eyes. For the first time since he’d come back to himself he felt a throb of emotion from her and knew without her having to speak what her meaning was. _Why didn’t you listen to me. Why do you never listen to me._

“Pippin,” Merry said. “Please say something.”

It could only have been minutes, that he had been gazing into the stone, but it had felt like an eternity and in all that agonising time he had been _alone_. Windflower had not gone with him.

She pressed her feathered head into his cheek, gentling him. He was not alone any more, he told himself, and she had not truly gone anywhere. And he had Merry and Grumpy beside him. They’d look after him. They always did.

He shifted closer to Merry, resting his head on his shoulder. “I’m alright,” he said softly, knowing it for a lie, saying it anyway. “I’m alright.”

*

Though it might have been impertinent, Pippin sought out Faramir in the ancient halls of the citadel.

“Peregrin,” said Faramir, before he could utter so much as a word. He stood before one of the tall windows that lined the hall, bathed in fading sunlight. “What troubles you?”

“What makes you think I’m troubled?” said Pippin.

Faramir’s eyes flicked to Windflower, who sat upon Pippin’s shoulder, fluttering her wings in agitation. His own dæmon’s eyes did not turn from the window.

“I know you have greater things on your mind,” said Pippin, “but I have to ask. How – how were they?”

At that, Faramir’s dæmon turned to look at him. A falcon, with slate-blue wings and a creamy belly. Pippin had looked at her and thought – _oh – of course_.

Both of them, man and dæmon, knew at once who Pippin meant, but they did not answer at once. The falcon murmured in Faramir’s ear and Faramir listened for long moments.

“You are kinsmen?” he said.

“Cousins,” said Pippin. “Frodo and I, I mean.” Now was not the time to explain the intricate web of relationships that bound them to each other. _Cousins_ would do.

“He is well enough,” said Faramir at length. “Sleepless – and troubled. But strong. Very strong, considering the burden he bears.”

Pippin’s heart eased, but not by much. “And Sam,” he said. “What about Sam?”

He had not realised, until they’d been parted, how much Sam had come to mean to him. Sam had been in his life as long as he could remember, just like Merry and Frodo. Solid, and reliable, and patient, Harebell a warm and comforting presence at his side. With a twinge of guilt, Pippin realised he had taken them rather for granted.

When he thought of Frodo, he thought of all the things he should have said, _would_ have said, if he’d known. When he thought of Sam he thought of the things he shouldn’t have said, and, somehow, that hurt more.

“Ah,” said Faramir. “Sam.”

He said it sternly, but also, curiously, with fondness. Sam was, Pippin supposed, a difficult hobbit to dislike. “How was he?” he asked.

“Faring well, I would say,” said Faramir. “He has a strength in him. Frodo, too. I think your people are stronger than you look.”

“I don’t know about that.” Semi-consciously, he reached up to touch Windflower. “I don’t feel very strong at all.”

On his shoulder Faramir’s dæmon stirred, and for the first time spoke. “Neither do we – much of the time.”

Pippin was startled – more startled than he ought to have been – to hear a male voice. Not so deep as Faramir’s but male nonetheless. Frodo was the only person he’d met whose dæmon was the same sex as himself. He couldn’t find it in himself to answer.

Windflower, unruffled, said, “how do you get by?”

“I pretend,” said the falcon-dæmon. If he had lips, Pippin thought he would be smiling.

“If I may ask,” said Faramir. “Your dæmon – she is yet unsettled?”

“I –” Pippin faltered. He wasn’t altogether sure how Faramir had known. Was it so obvious?

When he’d been fitted for his livery, they’d offered to fit Windflower. Most of the guards’ dæmons wore livery of their own, collars or jackets in neat black. At the very idea, Windflower had turned herself from a sparrow into a fat rooster, which of course had put matters to rest and got her a very funny look.

After taking a good look at Pippin in his livery, though, she’d turned into a magpie and sat quietly on his shoulder. That was how she stayed when they were on duty, quiet and decorous and matching the colours of the guard.

It made them a touch itchy, holding a shape for so long, but not so itchy as he would have expected and it warded off any more funny looks. That, he’d elected to believe, was the only reason she was changing less – for appearances.

“Yes,” he confessed. “I’m late, I know.”

“We were late,” said Faramir. “It will come.”

Mere weeks ago Pippin would have protested that he didn’t want reassurance, because he didn’t _want_ to settle. But now he found Faramir’s words heartened him. He said, “I certainly hope so.”

Faramir touched his dæmon’s grey-blue head. “You may call him Swift.”

“Swift,” Pippin repeated. He wondered if he ought to pick a day-name for Windflower. But not now. “This is Windflower,” he said. “I’ll – trust you with that.”

“Windflower,” said Faramir, and only after he spoke her name did he recognise it for what it was. “His true name is Niphredil,” he said, indicating his dæmon. “I trust you with this. Let it not be misplaced.”

“It won’t be,” Pippin said; and the fierceness in his voice surprised even Windflower.

*

“Forgive me if it is impolite to ask,” said Beregond, “but do the dæmons of halflings – hobbits, I should say – settle as Men’s dæmons do?”

“Well, of course,” said Pippin. 

They sat high up above the white city. Beneath them the day was truly beginning; and for the first time in many hours, Pippin was starting to feel like a hobbit again.

Beregond’s eye fell, uneasily, on Windflower. “Later, I think,” Pippin added hastily; which wasn’t strictly true, but if misleading Beregond was what it took to set his mind at ease and avoid any uncomfortable questions, then so be it.

He’d never felt self-conscious about Windflower’s being unsettled before; but then, he was used to being around people who knew who he was, and how old. Small wonder that to Beregond’s eyes he looked like a child.

“It is hard for me to say,” said Beregond, “but if you were a boy of my kind, I’d say you were cusping. Is it so?”

“Cusping?” said Pippin around a mouth of bread and cheese.

“In Gondor when a boy or girl’s dæmon gets older they change less often – they begin to find the right shape,” said Beregond after a moment’s thoughts. “We call this cusping.”

“Oh, you mean to say slowing down,” said Pippin; and then as he realised what he had said, his own thoughts ground to a halt.

 _Was_ Windflower slowing down? Now that he thought of it, she had been a bird ever since – since _it_ had happened. A wren, a falcon, and now a goldfinch perched upon his knee and pecking at crumbs. He’d taken her stillness for exhaustion, but now she was all but recovered and holding her shapes far longer than ever before.

Windflower looked up at him, and he down at her. Could she be close to settling? She fluttered her wings and looked down at her feathery breast as if to say _maybe – I’m not sure_.

The thought made his guts squirm with fear.

“I did not mean to trouble you.” Beregond had laid his hand upon his own dæmon’s head, and now he scratched her behind the ears, perhaps fondly recalling their own settling.

Beregond’s dæmon was a lanky wolfhound. If she stood on her back legs, she’d tower over Pippin. Dæmons were so _big_ in Gondor. Beregond had told him to call her Hunter, but Pippin knew enough of Men’s ways to know that wasn’t her real name.

Everyone in Gondor had a nickname for their dæmon, it seemed, most of them wholly unimaginative. Beregond said they were called _day-names_ and had been astonished to learn that Pippin’s Windflower had none. 

Denethor had bade Pippin call his dæmon _Lady_.

“You didn’t,” said Pippin, though Beregond had. He didn’t want to think of settling, now, of all times. “Don’t bother about me. Come and look and tell me what I can see.”

*

He took her for stone at first. A statue adorning the steward’s throne – if it _was_ a throne. It wasn’t until she moved that Pippin realised his mistake.

He had thought Aragorn’s Theryn intimidating but Denethor’s eagle-dæmon put her to shame. Perhaps not taller than Theryn but heavier-set and broad, to Theryn what a mastiff was to a greyhound. Her talons, black and yellow, were large as Pippin’s face. Standing on the ground she would be shorter than him only by inches; atop the chair she towered over him.

Her feathers were white and grey, her eyes black, and, he saw as they drew closer, unnervingly human in their gaze. She had an intensity about her as he’d only encountered once before, in Aragorn’s dæmon, but Theryn had never frightened him. Theryn put him in mind of a great, powerful river; this eagle-dæmon’s fierceness was more like a raging inferno. He could almost feel the heat of her on his face.

Windflower fluttered her wings against his neck in agitation. Since they had come to Minas Tirith she’d been in the shape of a tiny hummingbird, small as one of his fingers, and stayed hidden within the hood of his cloak; but now some mix of fear and pride drew her out.

He felt her indecision, as she tried to decide what to become. She was in the kind of mood to flip-flop between shapes but they both knew that would make a poor first impression. Her wings fluttered. She settled upon his shoulder, and became a falcon.

At once those black eagle-eyes were on Windflower. The eagle-dæmon opened her wings, revealing banded black-and-white plumage, and raised up a tall feathered crest like a crown. He was sure Windflower had slighted her, but he couldn’t imagine how.

Windflower remained, stubbornly, in the falcon shape, and met the eagle-dæmon’s eyes. A moment passed. As suddenly as she had angered, the eagle-dæmon stilled. She lowered her crest and looked away.

Pippin wanted badly to ask Windflower what that had been all about, for possibly she knew; dæmons were better at reading other dæmons than any Man or hobbit could hope to be. But he was in the presence of the Steward of Gondor and so he said nothing to his dæmon, and put the matter out of his mind.

*

Pippin awoke staring at a stone wall, and found that he was twisted in his blankets and it was light. Not daylight; someone had come past and lit the lamps. Perhaps that was what had woken him. He couldn’t say.

There was a distant thundering of stone upon stone and at once he was fully awake. He rolled over. Windflower gazed back at him with tiny, bright eyes.

“Ah,” said Pippin. He had, groggily, taken what had happened before they fell asleep for a dream.

He sat up, his back to the wall, and Windflower perched between his knees and for long, long minutes they stared at each other, hobbit and dæmon, neither of them daring to speak, neither of them knowing quite what to say.

It was Pippin who broke the silence. “Could you not,” he said, “have settled as something a bit more… fiercesome?”

“We’re not the fiercesome type and you know it,” said Windflower.

“I know – I know.” Pippin scrubbed his hands over his bleary eyes. “It would just be nice to be something big, at present.”

“I’m sorry,” said Windflower.

“I never said I didn’t _like_ it,” said Pippin.

“Do you?” said Windflower. “Like it?”

“I don’t know.”

The truth of it was, outside of moments of idle fancy, they’d never given much thought to how Windflower might settle. He’d joked about how he’d like to have a lion or a tiger or a bear, but he’d not meant it. The truth was, he’d come to think of settling as something that happened to other people.

Merry used to pore over Bilbo’s books on dæmon-shapes, fascinated and studious. He’d known just what it meant to be a fox when Grumpy had settled. Pippin had never seen the point and so he hadn’t bothered. He had no idea what it meant for Windflower to be a blue tit.

But, he found, he was pleased she had settled as a bird. He’d known or at least suspected that she was going that way since Beregond had pointed it out and been pleased – relieved – unsurprised. It hadn’t felt like a realisation so much as like remembering something he’d known long, long ago.

He’d have hated for her to settle as something without wings.

“I _think_ I like it,” he said. “I don’t _know_ , Windflower. There’s no room in my head to think about this.”

“Nor mine,” said Windflower.

“Well.” Pippin touched her head gently. “Yours is very small, now.” Despite everything, Windflower began to laugh.

From the other side of the wall came a short, harsh cry of “ _Peregrin_.”

“I think we’re wanted,” said Pippin.

“I think so,” said Windflower. Pippin held out his hands, and she hopped up onto his cupped palms. With her upon his shoulder, in what had come to be her accustomed place, he went to see what his lord wanted.

*

“And I see you two have calmed down at last,” said Gimli, his eyes trained on Windflower.

He said it with the air of a weary schoolmaster, as if Pippin and Windflower had been misbehaving and had tired themselves out. Frodo had told Pippin that Gimli had a shaky grasp on how settling worked, and for the first time Pippin saw what he meant.

He truly didn’t know what to say to that, _calmed down_. “Yes, she settled,” he said.

At that, all of a sudden he hat Aragorn’s attention. His gaze roamed briefly over Pippin’s face before alighting on Windflower, noticing for the first time the change that had come over her.

“Oh – Pippin,” he said. “You did not say.”

“Well, there was never a good time,” said Pippin.

What was he supposed to say? _Good to see you again Strider, before you go about healing everyone there’s something I need to tell you?_ Or maybe _morning everyone, I know the city’s under siege and there’s a war on but my dæmon settled and that’s just as important, naturally_.

Aragorn was, disarmingly, as much at a loss for how to respond as Pippin. After a moment he clapped Pippin’s empty shoulder and said, “well done.”

Pippin’s mind went to his father, waiting back in the Shire without the slightest idea where Pippin and Windflower were or the danger they were in. The breath went out of his lungs. He wanted to cry.

“Are you well?” said Aragorn.

Pippin faltered. 

Since he had been parted from Aragorn he had seen a Man’s dæmon burn away into the air, and welcome it, flames licking her from the inside out. He had tried to appeal to her, thinking that surely, _surely_ she would see sense but she had only shrieked at him like an animal and then she had burned.

He’d seen the severed men in the host of Mordor, their dead, hollow eyes and the emptiness around them and at the memory his stomach turned.

He’d seen the colour drain out of Merry’s dæmon’s fur, watched her turn grey and dull and cold, and known there was nothing in the world he could do to stop it.

He said, “I’m well enough.”

“Good,” said Aragorn, and with a brisk nod he turned away.

Gimli was looking on puzzled, not understanding the weight of what had transpired; and Pippin hadn’t the heart to explain.

“I’m a bird, apparently,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d be a bird. I like it.”

Stroking his beard, Gimli studied Windflower. “Yes – a bird. It suits you well.”

“She’s very lovely,” said Legolas, utterly sincere and disquietingly earnest. “Bird looks good on you,” he said to Windflower.

Windflower ruffled her feathers, and said, “thank you.”

*

In the house of healing Merry threw his arms around Pippin and pulled him into a hug, strong and warm and loving, and a lump rose in Pippin’s throat. “I’m fine,” he said, knowing it for a lie. “I’m fine.”

On the bed Windflower was whispering in Grumpy’s ear and what she was saying he couldn’t imagine.

“We’ll celebrate later,” said Merry, choked with tears.

Pippin said, “when all of this is over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Pippin and Windflower:** [blue tit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_blue_tit#/media/File:Eurasian_blue_tit_Lancashire.jpg).  
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Grumpy"):** [red fox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_-_British_Wildlife_Centre_\(17429406401\).jpg).  
>  **Aragorn and Nanwë ("Theryn"):** [ white tailed eagle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White-tailed_eagle#/media/File:White_tailed_eagle_raftsund_square_crop.jpg).  
>  **Faramir and Niphredil ("Swift"):** [peregrine falcon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peregrine_falcon#/media/File:Peregrine_falcon_\(Australia\).JPG).  
>  **Denethor and "Lady":** [harpy eagle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harpy_eagle#/media/File:Harpia_harpyja_001_800.jpg).  
>  **Beregond and "Hunter":** [Irish wolfhound](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Wolfhound#/media/File:Fergus_\(2544727297\).jpg).


End file.
